


Punch

by ArtisticRainey



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Bros bein' bros, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-10 06:48:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6944146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtisticRainey/pseuds/ArtisticRainey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's annoyed. Scott comes to the rescue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Punch

Rhythmic thudding in a house full of teenagers had been a warning sound. It was the kind of noise that made Scott _nope_ right out of the house. But the teens had all grown (bar one) and such sounds were not to be feared with as much consternation.

So when Scott was heading to the firing range – determined to pip the ace again – and heard the rhythmic thud, he stopped. He turned towards the gym door, cocked his head to the side, and listened. _Punching bag_ , he thought. _Pretty strong jabs but it’s not Virgil – he’s crying into his paint pots because his pointillism isn’t working out. Not Kayo – she’s on patrol. The two kids are upstairs, locked in an epic battle with some dragon or something… And the punches aren’t hard enough to be Grandma’s._

It left only one culprit.

He pushed the door open with the flat of his hand and, lo and behold, was the killer of punch bags, the stuffing knocker-outer himself: John.

Sweat hung in the air, flying in droplets from the ends of his brother’s red hair. Scott narrowed his eyes. _He’s been at it for a while_ , he thought, letting the door slip closed behind him. _And, as usual, he has no idea when enough is enough_.

Padding across the hard floor, Scott folded his arms over his chest. He let the tips of his hi-tops touch the gym mats. And he waited. And John kept punching.

“Stupid _morons_ ,” John ground out.

_Ah_ , Scott thought. _Here we go_.

“Who’s a moron?” he asked.

“Telling me stuff I already know…”

Right uppercut followed by left uppercut. And again and again and again. John’s breath came in measured pulses, steady as the beat of his gloved hands on the tortured punch bag.

Scott snatched up his brother’s water bottle and took a swing, then leaned back against the plastered wall.

“What stuff?”

“ _Me_!” John continued, the torrent of his fists ongoing. “Telling _me_. I came _up_ with that theory, dammit!”

In a swift movement he jumped back, then swept his leg round, delivering a swift kick to the poor bag. Scott licked a stray droplet from his upper lip and blinked.

“Hmm?”

Words were pointless now. John wasn’t even listening. And now his punches were the most final of all periods.

“I. Came. Up. With. That. Theory,” he snarled. “Don’t. Tell. Me. Stuff. I. Al-Ready. _Know_!”

“So the conference went well, I assume,” Scott said, taking another sip to take the edge from his dry wit.

“Well?” John said. “ _Well_?”

He whirled on Scott, sweat lashing from his forehead, his cheeks up in red blooms, his eyes electric. For a moment, Scott stilled. _He won’t hit me… Will he?_

To be on the safe side, he ducked around and plucked up a set of pads. John took this as an invitation rather than a defence. Thus, fists rained down on Scott. _Lucky I have quick reflexes!_

“Ten Jabs, alternating,” he said.

Something in John _clicked_ and his rage was channelled. He did as he was told.

“It’s just bullshit,” he snarled. “Absolute bullshit.”

“Ten uppercuts, alternating.”

Scott raised the pads and let his brother have at it.

“I can’t stand it,” John said. “I just can’t stand it when people tell me what I already know.”

A pause. Then.

“Ten right crosses.”

His brother’s breathing faltered a little. _Good,_ Scott thought.

“And the way they patronised me!” John said through gritted teeth. “I swear to god, I could have reached out and throttled them.”

“And that’s ten,” Scott counted. “Take a break.”

Panting, John backed off and unpeeled the boxing gloves from his hands. The skin of his fingers was white and wrinkled from the sweat. The tossed them to the ground, then bumped down onto the mat himself. He lay back, staring at the roof, chest heaving.

Scott hovered over him and gave a lopsided smile.

“Better?” he asked.

John nodded as best he could, the back of his head sliding on the mat.

“Yeah, thanks,” he said.

Scott plucked up the water bottle again and handed it over. John pulled himself up by his abdominals – _Impressive_ , Scott thought – and took a swig.

“Ugh.”

Scott couldn’t stop his smirk. _But hey_ , he thought. _I’m entitled. I just stepped in, big-bro style. I’m allowed to smirk a little_. To his credit, John let it go.

“Sore?” Scott asked.

“Uh huh.”

“But better?”

“Definitely.”

Reaching out, Scott pulled John to his feet and clapped him on the back. Then he immediately regretted it, since his hand came away decidedly _moist_.

“Gross,” he said.

John nodded.

“Yes,” he said, then finished off the water. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Scott said, wiping his hand on the only dry part of John’s t-shirt he could find – the left shoulder. “Any time. Now, want to come watch some awesome shooting?”

Nodding, John grabbed his towel and started drying off his hair.

“I came up with that theory,” he said, words muffled beneath blue fuzz. “I did.”

“I know you did,” Scott said.

“I hate being patronised.”

John’s words were clearer this time round. He draped the towel around his shoulders.

“I know,” Scott said.

“Morons.”

“Yes. Now, come on.”

He slung an arm around his brother’s shoulders, now protected from the sweaty mess by the towel.

“My theory…”

“Uh-huh. You are smart and everyone else is dumb,” Scott said.

He led John from the gym, letting the door slide closed behind them. John turned and pinned him with a look – a grateful one.

“Thanks,” he said. “I am smart.”

Scott grinned anew.

“You are,” he said. “And you’re very welcome.”


End file.
